Part 1: Night Help

Person needed for maintenance role at wildlife refuge

Punctuality and discretion a must!

Inquire at 1543 N. Montegro Rd between 10pm and 12am

      That was the ad on the grocery store board. It didn’t say the road leading to the driveway had a twenty-foot-high fence. Nothing about it being covered with black sheeting and topped with barbed wire either. Seemed like an important detail since they insisted you come at night.

      I’d almost given up on finding the place. My legs ached, and the flashlight I’d duct-taped to my handlebars began to flicker. That fence just kept going. Just as I considered giving up, I saw the mailbox: 1543 N. Montegro Rd.

      The house waited at the end of a curving, snake-like driveway that wove through unusually large trees. My mother and I didn’t have a car and had never seen this part of the county — hilly with large brick houses spread far apart. An exterior light showed me the extra-tall front door, big enough you could drive a van through it. The hair on my neck stood as I approached.

      I knocked and stepped back to wait.

      It took a long time before the door opened. I thought maybe they were watching me from inside, deciding whether to answer. A very tall man in a long white coat opened it and looked at me silently.

      “Hi,” I said. “I’m here about the job.”

      “I’m not looking for a child,” he replied, and started to close the door.

      “Hey! I’m no kid. I’m 16.”

      The man stopped. He looked over at my bike with the flickering flashlight I’d forgotten to turn off and then back at me.

      “You rode that here?” he asked.

      “No, I tele-transported. Somebody else must’ve left the bike.”

      His eyes steeled as he looked down at me. “A good, stiff nerve serves you well. Insufferable sarcasm does not.”

      I pushed back my temper and apologized. The man introduced himself as Dr. Elias Kettering, and I told him my name was Danny Slinger, a student at Greenridge High School. He said he ran the sanctuary himself but needed someone to maintain the perimeter. Night work—because of the animals. I didn’t ask questions about this or the pay and was told to come back the following night for a tryout.

 

      The streetlights of Greenridge comforted me, but that comfort died away when I saw our living room light on. Mom had the recliner turned to face the door and started in as soon as I got inside.

      “Late night bike ride, huh?”

      “It was for a job, Mom.”

      “Your job is finishing school.”

      She stood up, and the lamp exaggerated the puffy red bags her eyes got from crying. Her boss had sent her home early again. The lack of work was hurting everyone, especially the line workers. Mom’s progression from sad to mad often happened quickly, even during these times.

      “I’m pissed, Danny. You can’t take off in the middle of the night.”

      I nodded apologetically and walked into the kitchen. She followed as I opened the refrigerator door — empty except for a half-gallon of whole milk. I touched my stomach for effect. I knew she didn’t want me working. I also knew guilt could convince her. I shut the door softly as she sat down at the table, and I joined her.

      “Things are getting better,” she said.

      “Mom, it’s only a couple of hours a night. Maybe I can put some money away for college.”

      She let her face sink into her hands. “What is the job, anyway?”

      I shrugged. “Maintenance.”

      “If your grades drop, it’s over.”

      “Okay,” I said.

 

      When I arrived the next night, I found a note under a flat rock by the front door. It said: Come in. Follow the instructions on the desk.

      I pushed the door open into a large room with slate floors and a winding staircase off to one side. The house smelled like cleaning fluids and a thick animal smell I couldn’t place. There was a camera in the corner, just above the desk. A pen and a few pieces of paper were the only things on it. The first page read:

      Danny,

      My apologies for not being there. I had emergent obligations. I’ve left an itinerary that will guide you through your nightly duties. If you can’t manage, don’t worry, I’ll find somebody who can.

      -Dr. Elias Kettering

      “Dick,” I muttered before remembering the camera.

      The second page had a map of the property with an x to show my current location, and the third page was instructions:

      Walk the perimeter of the fence. Note breaks in the screening, bends in the fence, or any abnormal wear on the map. WRITE DETAILED NOTES. Use the light in the top drawer set to power level 5. Once the walk is completed, leave the light and notes on the desk. See accompanying rule sheet.

      I opened the drawer. The light was huge, black, and appeared to have a speaker underneath the lens, which was the size of a car headlamp. It felt heavy as a bowling ball; the flat handle made it hard to carry in one hand.

      I turned to the next page.

Rules

1. Fence inspection must take place after dark.
2. Wildlife is not to be engaged under any circumstances. If wildlife engages you, cut off inspection and report back to the house immediately.
3. In the event of a breach, turn light to power level 10, engage the repelling siren, and report back to the house immediately.
4. Do NOT run under any circumstances. Running activates the prey drive and may lead to an increased chance of a breach.
5. Confidentiality is critical.
6. Do not respond to vocalizations.

      Good Luck!

      -Dr. Elias Kettering

      P.S. If you prove to be an asset, we’ll discuss payment tomorrow evening.

      As I walked through the van-wide doors and out into the dark with my light and map, I realized I had no clue what was inside the fence. The silence of the night overwhelmed me. The trees were still. I didn’t hear a single animal. And for the first time, I thought maybe the fence wasn’t to keep things out.